


True Blue

by diner_drama



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Academia, Charles is an incorrigible flirt, M/M, Oxford, Tweed - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 01:41:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21028172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diner_drama/pseuds/diner_drama
Summary: Erik is in Oxford to hunt down one of Shaw's associates and he doesn't need any distractions from his mission.Charles is in desperate need of distraction from his wretched thesis and his dismal rowing team, so when he meets a young man with a fascinating mutation and a terrifying smile, he's keen to get to know him better.





	1. Chapter 1

Erik was enjoying a quiet drink when the seat next to him was suddenly occupied.

"The mutation that gave rise to blue eyes might have only happened as recently as six thousand years ago," murmured a voice in his ear. "Stunning blue eyes like yours have only existed for 2% of the history of the human race."

"Hello," responded Erik, amused, turning to face his new companion, who appeared to be 5' 7" of tweed and self-confidence.

"Early humans had brown eyes," he continued, leaning close as though he were imparting a secret, "but then someone was born with a defect in the gene for melanin production, and became the single common ancestor of every blue eyed person on the planet."

Taking a long pull of his drink, Erik contemplated the blue-eyed stranger. "I suppose that makes us long-lost cousins, then."

"Yes," he said with a wince, "now I think about it, that wasn't the best chat-up line I could have chosen."

Erik chuckled. "I've heard worse."

The other man shifted closer, running his tongue over his bottom lip slowly and deliberately. "Did any of them work?"

"A few."

His lips really were obscenely red. "Why don't you try one of them on me and see if it's universal?"

"As glad as I would be to take you up on your offer," - and he would be very glad indeed - "I'm afraid I'm working tonight."

"That's a shame. Well, I won't keep you. If you find yourself at a loose end later, do feel free to visit me in my rooms. Pembroke College, down past the post office. You can't miss it."

"I'll keep that in mind," said Erik, scanning the business card that was slipped into his hand. "Nice to meet you... Charles."

* * *

It was some ungodly hour on a misty, wet Tuesday morning and Charles was in a terribly bad mood. 

He'd been roped into helping out the college boat club when one of their rowers dropped out without notice, which was not a problem in and of itself. However, the combination of a novice crew, a rain-swollen river, and a very inconveniently placed willow tree right after a difficult bend, had left them stuck in the bank for ten damp, irritating minutes, with no sign of the ordeal ending soon.

Charles, stuck as he was right in the bow, was having to contend with a face full of tree, a branch poking him in a very intimate place, and an increasingly wet arse. 

"Everybody turn their oars upside down and start backing," he shouted, in the absence of any kind of leadership from the stern of the boat. "No!" he yelped as the boat moved towards the bank, "for Christ's sake, five and six, go the other way, you're making it worse."

Just as he was resigning himself to becoming one flesh with the tree and possibly having to propose marriage to keep its honour intact, with a squeal of bolts, the boat began to inch out into the stream. There was no visible current that was pulling them - and the mediocre efforts of the crew couldn't account for this reversal of fortunes - so he cast around to find some other explanation. 

On the towpath, in a nondescript grey tracksuit, there stood his prospective suitor from the previous evening, six beautiful feet of steely muscle. To the casual observer, his interest in the proceedings on the river may have seemed nonchalant, but Charles' cursory inspection of the surface of the man's thoughts, combined with the curious vibrations in the metal riggers, told a very different story.

_Hello,_ thought Charles with immense satisfaction. _That's something I haven't seen before._

"OK," shouted the cox, regaining his wits rather too late, "full slide, feathered blades, go!" 

Freed from their leafy doom, the team started manning the oars in earnest, eight blades slicing into the water in what should have been, but was not, perfect unity. Straining against the current, Charles made a mental note to find his rescuer and ask him a number of very interesting questions.

_After_ he'd changed into dry clothes and warmed up.

* * *

"You know," said Charles later that evening, sliding into the seat next to Erik, who looked up from his drink with a sly smile. "That willow tree has been my mortal enemy for a number of years. I must express my gratitude to you for saving me from its clutches."

"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about," said Erik mildly, as his heart tried to claw its way out of his chest in sheer panic.

"Well," said Charles with a lascivious smirk. "I could express my gratitude in a number of ways, depending on your preferences-"

"While I was glad to _witness_ your miraculous escape from the bank of the Isis, I was too far away to have possibly had a hand in it," Erik clarified. "Much as I'm sure I would enjoy your gratitude."

"Did you at least enjoy my performance?"

"You have a tendency to rush the slide, it sends the boat jerking backwards." Unable to resist the temptation, he traced a droplet of water down the side of his pint glass with one finger. "The key is to take it slowly."

Charles took his red lower lip between his teeth and shot him a heated look. "Is that so?"

Erik smirked, pleased with how their little game was progressing. "You should also square your oar earlier or it'll get caught."

"You know, we could do with a strapping fellow like you at stroke."

"I'm not even going to touch that innuendo."

"Pity. Let me buy you a drink."

* * *

A few pints later, they found themselves ensconced in a snug corner behind an ancient and crumbling stone wall, sitting close on a velvet bench of questionable cleanliness around a wobbly, scarred old table.

"It was the most extraordinary thing," Charles was saying. "Just as I was about to make an honest woman out of that tree, we were pulled out by the metal on the riggers. It was a wonderful little trick."

"Perhaps it was the current," Erik replied carefully.

"Oh, Erik," reproached Charles lightly, taking a sip. "You can't possibly expect me to believe that."

Erik's eyes narrowed. "I don't recall telling you my name."

_It turns out, I have some tricks of my own,_ said Charles' voice inside Erik's head.

Later, Charles liked to think that if he hadn't been quite so tipsy, he would have seen the punch coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your favourite lines in the comments!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Charles regained consciousness, it was to find that Erik had slammed him against the wall in a threatening and not at all homoerotic way.
> 
> "Where is Shaw?" snarled Erik, his face mere inches away from Charles'.
> 
> "I think his ashes are scattered somewhere in Hertfordshire," murmured Charles groggily. "I'm sorry, are you trying to shake me down for information about dead playwrights with dubious political opinions?"
> 
> "_Sebastian_ Shaw, not _George Bernard_, you sentient tweed jacket."
> 
> "I'll note you still knew who I was talking about. People who live in _tweed houses_-" 

When Charles regained consciousness, it was to find that Erik had slammed him against the wall in a threatening and not at all homoerotic way.

"Where is Shaw?" snarled Erik, his face mere inches away from Charles'.

"I think his ashes are scattered somewhere in Hertfordshire," murmured Charles groggily. "I'm sorry, are you trying to shake me down for information about dead playwrights with dubious political opinions?"

"_Sebastian_ Shaw, not _George Bernard_, you sentient tweed jacket."

"I'll note you still knew who I was talking about. People who live in _tweed houses_-" 

He was cut off when his tie pin rotated ninety degrees and began to slowly push its way into his chest. 

"Look, I'm afraid I really don't know a Sebastian Shaw, and I am terribly fond of that tie pin, so can we please discuss this in a slightly less stabbing fashion? I assure you, I will tell you the entire truth."

"Very well," said Erik with quiet, well-controlled menace, dropping his arm from around Charles' neck. "Do please enlighten me." He removed the tie pin from Charles' chest and floated it in the air a slightly threatening distance from Charles' eye, which wasn't exactly an improvement.

"I haven't been entirely honest with you, love, I'm sorry," said Charles, slipping back into his seat and applying himself to his pint glass.

"That much is obvious."

"I'm a telepath," said Charles simply. "I can read your mind to prove it, but I'd like to give you some warning so you don't punch me again."

"You'd think a telepath would have been able to predict the punch," murmured Erik drily, raising an eyebrow.

"A sober one might."

"Very well. What am I thinking right now?"

Charles laid two fingers on his temple and concentrated very hard for a moment, then turned very red and choked a little. "Erik!"

"Yes?"

"That is _filthy_."

"What?" smirked Erik, not at all ashamed of himself. "You know you were thinking the same."

"That is hardly the point," grumbled Charles, readjusting himself in his seat.

The tie pin clattered to the table, signalling that Erik had accepted his explanation. Charles picked it up and examined it closely.

"So you control metal. All metal, or just the ferromagnetic metals?" he asked, his scholarly interest shining through.

"All metals," said Erik with a detectable hint of smugness. "I can sense it, too. You have eight shillings and six in your pocket."

"There is a more enjoyable way to count the change in my pocket, you know."

Erik picked up his drink, beginning to enjoy himself again. "I didn't think I'd ever meet someone else like me."

"What, a homosexual?"

"Charles."

"Sorry, my friend. I'm enjoying your company and this beer a little too much, I suspect."

"Are there others? Like us, here?"

"One that I know of, my sister, although I have my suspicions about some alumni. Running a four minute mile? Doesn't seem like the kind of thing a human could do."

"You conceal your powers."

"Usually. You clearly don't mind showing off."

Erik let a little smile play around his lips. "I could have hardly let you fall in the river, now, could I?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. Or even the tenth. The porters at St. Hilda's can get quite obstreperous when they catch you climbing out of someone's window in the middle of the night."

"I'll bear that in mind."

"Now, I understand that you have a pressing need to go and hunt Nazis while you're here, but-"

"How the hell-" started Erik. Charles just pointed vaguely at his own temple in response. "Ah, yes. Telepath."

"_But_," he continued, unabated, "they're probably all asleep by now, so you'd _really_ better do the gentlemanly thing and make sure I get home safely."

"I don't think Nazis have a specific bedtime."

"_Then_, in the morning when I'm sober I can come and help you."

"Firstly, I don't need your help-"

"Yes, you do."

"-and secondly, I do not think that your intentions are entirely honourable."

"You don't want my intentions to be honourable."

"I'm not going to sleep with you while you're this drunk."

"Ah, so you _are_ planning on sleeping with me at some point?"

Erik let out a long, world-weary sigh. "Come on, let's get you home."

* * *

Accompanying Charles home would be a much easier task if he didn't insist on giving lectures on the city's history at every corner.

"You know, this particular piece of architecture is named the Bridge of Sighs, after the famous bridge in Venice," he was saying, swaying slightly and waving his arm expansively over his head, "even though it bears very little resemblance, other than the fact that it is a bridge."

Erik grunted in response, concentrating rather hard on keeping his footing on the cobbled street.

"And here!" continued Charles as they rounded a corner. "A young man once walked down this lane on a snowy night, saw this lamp-post, this engraving," - here, he gestured towards a squat depiction of a fawn cast in bronze over a doorway - "and this door-knocker," - another gesture, this time to an ornate lion's head - "and had an idea for a story. That man's name was Clive Staples Lewis."

Erik, who was only half-listening, paused at that. "_Staples_?"

"I know. Terribly unfortunate."

The remaining stumble back to Charles' college was sufficient time for him to educate Erik on the mathematics of _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ and for a very long and rambling story about Oscar Wilde building a road in a swamp in a nearby village, which was just drawing to its tortuous conclusion as they reached the Porters' Lodge.

Charles fumbled with his keys for a moment before stopping and looking up at Erik with puppy-dog eyes. Erik sighed and waved a hand at the ornate, wooden doors, feeling the metal of the lock click open.

They made their way through the silent college quad, the manicured grass springy under their feet, and slipped through a side door into Charles' rooms. There was a cheerful, crackling fire in the grate, illuminating the bookshelves that surrounded the small living room, the stacks of paper on the desk, and what looked like an actual human skull mounted on a metal stand.

"Is this your thesis?" asked Erik, picking up a sheaf of papers from the comfortable leather sofa.

"For my sins," said Charles vaguely, toeing off his shoes. 

"Human genetic mutation," read Erik. 

Charles made a non-committal sound and crossed the room to wrap his arms around Erik's waist, tucking himself against the other man's tall, lean body. "You smell good," he mumbled into the black polo neck jumper. 

"It's time for you to be in bed, _Liebchen_," said Erik gently, laying the papers back down where he found them and steering Charles towards the bedroom.

"Mmm, you're not wrong," yawned Charles, sitting down on the mattress with a "whump".

"I'll take the sofa."

"No you bloody won't," said Charles, extricating a set of pyjamas from under his pillow. "You're eight feet tall, it would be geometrically impossible. Besides, I might fall out of bed without someone to catch me."

"We couldn't have that," murmured Erik, shooting Charles an amused side-eyed look.

Once Erik had stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, and Charles had wriggled his way into his pyjamas - "I'd offer you my spare set, my friend, but I'm afraid they'd be a tad tight on you," said Charles cheerfully - they settled on the narrow bed, Charles' head resting comfortably on Erik's broad chest, Erik's arms wrapped around his shoulders, a steadying anchor.

"Tomorrow we shall have thrilling adventures," said Charles vaguely, sleep pulling at his mind.

"I don't doubt it," murmured Erik drily, and they settled down together to rest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik awoke slowly with a sleepy, warm academic wrapped around his torso, nuzzling aimlessly under his chin. He allowed himself a brief respite from his usual single-minded focus to draw his arms warmly around Charles and press a gentle kiss into his soft hair, enjoying their moment frozen in time, in the cool sunlight filtering in through the curtains.
> 
> "I'm terribly eager to get into the Nazi-hunting part of the day," said Charles in a low, rumbly voice into Erik's skin, "but I hope you'll forgive me for insisting on breakfast first." He rolled over to sit up, then clutched his head with a wince. "And perhaps an aspirin," he added.

Erik awoke slowly with a sleepy, warm academic wrapped around his torso, nuzzling aimlessly under his chin. He allowed himself a brief respite from his usual single-minded focus to draw his arms warmly around Charles and press a gentle kiss into his soft hair, enjoying their moment frozen in time, in the cool sunlight filtering in through the curtains.

"I'm terribly eager to get into the Nazi-hunting part of the day," said Charles in a low, rumbly voice into Erik's skin, "but I hope you'll forgive me for insisting on breakfast first." He rolled over to sit up, then clutched his head with a wince. "And perhaps an aspirin," he added.

He padded to the bathroom in his bare feet. Erik watched him for a moment, and then retrieved his neatly folded turtleneck and jeans from the chair where he'd left them and slid back into them, reminding himself that a hearty breakfast was a good foundation for his work and not an unnecessary distraction.

The aspirin wouldn't go amiss either.

"I'd offer to cook for you here," continued Charles, ambling back into the room, "but given my facilities and the state of my cupboards, we'd basically have to share a boiled egg."

He did, however, have the means to make some restorative cups of coffee, even retrieving a small bottle of milk from outside the window where it had been cooling on the sill overnight. Erik also accepted a fizzing glass of painkiller with a nod that showed a lot more stoicism than he felt.

Thus restored, they made their way across the dewy grass of the quad, absorbed in a discussion about the finer points of metallurgy. Erik found Charles' unrestrained interest in his favourite topic rather gratifying, and allowed himself to expand at length on the kind of metals that can be found in everyday objects.

The dining hall was a grand affair, with high, arching windows set into the walls and portraits of notable alumni hanging behind the high table at the head of the room. The occupants, however, were rather less illustrious, mostly being hungover undergraduates in their pyjamas and eager (if muddy) Rugby players, all talking loudly over their trays of rubbery eggs and bacon that had sat under a heat lamp for rather too long.

Charles was greeted by various students and faculty as he and Erik filled their plates and made their way to the long, wooden table, and he returned their salutations with his sweet, engaging smile, promising several students to help them with essays during his office hours, greeting each of them by name.

Erik had to try very hard not to find this endearing.

"The food served here has two principal virtues," said Charles in professorial tones, as they took their seats. "One: it is spectacularly inexpensive, and two: it has never been conclusively proven to be poisonous."

"High praise indeed," said Erik, inspecting something on his plate that he suspected had once been a mushroom.

"Now I once again have access to brain function," said Charles, swallowing a hard lump of bacon, "I suggest you make use of it."

"Very well," said Erik, flashing him a smile that was mostly teeth. He leant forwards, resting his chin on his steepled fingers. "Tell me what you know about Augustus Pitt Rivers."

* * *

The museum's cabinets crowded around them - shrunken heads and ceremonial masks of all kinds leering out at them through the glass. The narrow corridors between the exhibits were small enough that two could hardly walk abreast, and the air was close, full of hushed, polite whispers as visitors tried to navigate past one another. It felt more like an ancient and dusty second-hand shop that dealt entirely in cursed antiques.

"The Pitt Rivers is somewhat unusual, as archaeological museums go," said Charles, pausing at an exhibition of ancient instruments. "You see, instead of organising the objects by time period or geography, they are organised by category. Here, for example. Nose flutes from every possible era and location. If you want to know about nose flutes, this is your one-stop shop."

They were standing close together in the tight space, Charles' shoulder brushing against Erik's chest as he gesticulated. Erik stood with his hands on his hips, enjoying Charles' enthusiasm.

"Augustus Pitt Rivers was unusual also," he continued, "in that he strongly believed in cataloguing the everyday objects from people's lives. In a world of archaeologists who were little more than treasure hunters, pilfering gold from graves," - at this, Erik gave a visible twitch - "he's been called the first _scientific_ archaeologist in Britain. Quite an extraordinary man, really."

"You strike me as more the dashing young Darwin figure than the dusty anthropologist," murmured Erik into Charles' ear, adopting a teasing tone. He nodded in the direction of the adjoining Natural History Museum. "I suppose you're rather more into all that stuff."

"I can't believe you'd question my devotion to nose flutes in this way," gasped Charles, pressing a hand to his chest. Erik chuckled. "Do you have much interest in evolutionary biology yourself?" continued Charles, making eye contact with Erik in the reflection in the glass cabinet and gracing him with another brilliant grin.

"I did my best with Origin of the Species, but I never could get past the section on pigeons without praying for my own swift, untimely death."

"A common plight," said Charles with a sympathetic grimace. He became absorbed for a moment in a small hand-written label on an ornate ivory comb, then abruptly remembered the information he was supposed to be imparting. "Now, this isn't the entire collection that Pitt Rivers curated over his lifetime. His late grandson's partner sold off a significant portion of the estate after his death. The museum has been trying to track them down ever since, but some of the items remain unaccounted for."

Erik cocked his head, considering. "If I were looking for an item with a particular backstory, how would I find it?"

"Do you know what kind of thing it is?"

"No, just that there are historical accounts of it bestowing a terrible power on one who bears it."

"Then, I hope you don't mind me asking, but, why on _God's green earth_ would you be interested in locating it?"

"I'm not," explained Erik. "The man I want to find is trying to locate it."

"Hmm, the plot thickens. Very well, I know just the fellow. Follow me."

He turned on his heels and led Erik up a narrow staircase to the gallery that surrounded the main room, four long corridors lined with halberds, spears, swords, pikes, and a vast array of any type of weapon you could imagine.

Erik let out a low whistle. "Do you think all these weapons were thrown at Pitt Rivers when he came to take away everyone's nose flutes?"

"I should hope not, then they'd be all dented." 

They reached a nondescript office door and Charles gave a polite rap with his knuckles. The door swung open, and he plastered on his friendliest smile. "Arthur, old chap, I've got a friend here who wants to pick your brains-"

He stopped short in horror when he saw the unlucky museum curator, who was slumped over his desk, utterly dead. 

Bending over the body was an imposing, pale-faced man, his casual civilian clothing belied by the military precision with which his blond hair had been combed in a side parting.

"Weyland," hissed Erik through clenched teeth.

The man snapped upright and gave them a truly horrible smile. "Mr. Lensherr. I've heard so much about you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now, come on, Erik. If I were rooting around in your mind for an advantage, why would I look at your chess strategies when you have that lovely thing with the massage oil right at the top of your thoughts?"
> 
> Erik flashed his predatory smile again, not at all ashamed of himself. "Good," he said, slowly and deliberately moving his forgotten queen across the board. "I was hoping that would catch your attention."
> 
> "Is that-?" exclaimed Charles, frowning at the board.
> 
> "Check in four moves, _Liebchen_." Erik took a sip of his drink, savouring his victory. "I think something must have distracted you."

The only warning that Charles had was a faint, repeated "shing" sound of metal being unsheathed.

All at once, with an almighty screech and the crackling snap of wood breaking, the entire gallery of weaponry burst from their display cases, flying towards Weyland and stopping, hovering in mid-air, pointed at him. Erik's hands were outstretched and trembling, a chilling rage taking over his features.

_Erik_, thought Charles desperately. _Please don't make this any more of a bloodbath._

The blond stranger smirked and took a step forwards, the sharp points of the swords and bayonets glancing lightly off his chest, as though he were made of steel. 

"From what I know of you, Mr. Lensherr, I would have expected better," said Weyland with infuriating softness. "I have to say, I am disappointed."

Erik grinned - a sharp, feral thing that showed all his teeth and somehow made him look more terrifying - and gestured violently upwards. The metal of the weapons creaked, deformed, and enveloped Weyland in its embrace, forming a prison so heavy and tight that he could no longer move.

"You were saying?" said Erik with a vicious kind of triumph. He clenched his hands into fists, and the metal cage began to deform and crumple inwards, squeezing the body inside with increasing force. Weyland let out a piercing, inhuman scream.

"Erik," said Charles aloud. "There's a better way to do this."

"Really? I can't think of one." The squealing continued, and Charles spent a brief moment mourning the loss of the cache of historical weaponry.

_I don't want to make you stop_, thought Charles to Erik, resting two fingers on his forehead, _but I will if I have to_.

Erik sighed, then, and released his grip, replacing the sound of screaming with muffled panting and sobs. "What precisely did you have in mind, Charles?" He placed his hands on his hips underneath his leather jacket and tapped one foot impatiently.

Charles closed his eyes and concentrated for a moment. "This man's orders from Sebastian Shaw were to interrogate poor old Arthur here for the location of the pendant - oh, apparently it's a pendant - and then to kill him to prevent anyone else from finding out the same information."

"So where's the pendant?"

Charles fixed him with a stare. "I know what you're planning to do, Erik, and I will not be a party to murder."

"Then what do you suggest we do with this delightful young man?" he said, waving towards their prisoner, who had recovered somewhat from his ordeal and was swearing loudly in several languages. "I somehow doubt he will go quietly."

"I can erase the last half hour or so from his mind, implant a false location for the pendant, and send him to sleep for a little while. He'll wake up, head back to Shaw, and Shaw will never find what he's looking for."

Erik was lost in thought for a while, weighing up the benefits of this clean approach against the satisfaction of violent retribution.

* * *

"I'm grateful that the better angels of your nature prevailed," said Charles later, with infuriating sincerity.

Privately, Erik was fairly certain that the main deciding factor had been Charles' ridiculous puppy dog eyes and his own intense desire not to see them marred by disappointment, but he wisely kept this to himself.

It took nearly an hour, and the diligent examination of a number of books that Charles had to liberate from the Bodleian, to return the collection of ancient weaponry back to its original state. Charles was able to keep away the staff and the public by using his telepathic powers to engender in anyone walking up the stairs the sudden and intense urge to go home and watch University Challenge. 

It was almost fun, sitting together on the floor of the gallery as Erik painstakingly shaped and re-formed the tarnished old blades and barrels. Charles, sprawled out next to his precious books, alternately offered instructions and made admiring comments about Erik's remarkably dexterous abilities. He watched, entranced, as Erik smoothed out and re-indented the intricate engraving on a ceremonial broadsword, and if his gaze lingered for a while on Erik's long fingers as he gestured in the air, and if he imagined what those fingers would feel like on his skin... well, that was between him and the books.

Once the weapons were repaired and returned to their cabinets (which they patched up as best they could, wood being rather less amenable to Erik's ministrations than the metals), Charles suggested a game of chess in his study, and the liberal application of a bottle of Scotch.

Erik assented, with a calculating look in his eyes that Charles knew was more to do with his interest in the information he was holding than with his appreciation for a nice single malt.

Nonetheless, they whiled away a pleasant hour facing each other across Charles' ornately carved chess set, sprawled in matching armchairs, with matching cut-glass tumblers of whisky and matching smirks. A few moves in, Charles' sock-clad foot found itself stroking up the side of Erik's calf. In front of the heat of the crackling fire, Charles shed his tie and unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing his neck and a whisper of his collar bones. He didn't miss the way that Erik's eyes followed his fingers, hungrily devouring every inch of his exposed flesh.

Conversation meandered between topics - Charles' research, their startlingly different childhoods, mutant rights, literature, music... As expected, Erik's mutant separatist views conflicted with Charles' commitment to integration, but the debate didn't become truly heated until Charles dared to suggest that _Jo's Boys_ was the best book in the _Little Women_ series. 

"Well, I definitely can't fuck you now," said Erik drily.

"Likewise," agreed Charles, capturing his bishop. "I do have standards, you know."

"Hmm. I'm not far away from losing this game, am I?" chuckled Erik.

"I'm afraid so, my friend," said Charles with a polite grimace.

"I don't imagine that accusing you of cheating will hold much weight."

"Now, come on, Erik. If I were rooting around in your mind for an advantage, why would I look at your chess strategies when you have that lovely thing with the massage oil right at the top of your thoughts?"

Erik flashed his predatory smile again, not at all ashamed of himself. "Good," he said, slowly and deliberately moving his forgotten queen across the board. "I was hoping that would catch your attention."

"Is that-?" exclaimed Charles, frowning at the board.

"Check in four moves, _Liebchen_." Erik took a sip of his drink, savouring his victory. "I think something must have distracted you."

Charles pinned him with an appraising stare, his eyes narrowing. "I can't believe you would use my telepathy and my well-documented sluttiness against me. Perhaps I don't know you as well as I thought."

"That's easily remedied," murmured Erik, trailing a hand up Charles' leg.

At this, Charles smirked, then let out a pleased laugh. "Come here," he said softly, leaning back in his chair and motioning for Erik to join him, which he did gladly, gracefully placing a knee either side of Charles' legs to straddle his lap. 

Erik dipped his head slowly, to finally meet those plush red lips in a soft kiss. The quiet noise that Charles made in response was intoxicating, and he couldn't resist brushing his tongue along his lower lip as he pulled away. Charles' hands drifted upwards to rest on Erik's waist, gripping him to pull him closer and capture his lips again in a hot, open-mouthed kiss.

Erik's hands slid into Charles' unruly chestnut curls and tugged, eliciting a hiss, as Charles' hands slid up his sides, rucking up his immaculate black turtleneck before pulling him even closer. The armchair gave an alarming creak and they broke apart, laughing breathlessly.

"Shall we take this to a slightly sturdier piece of furniture?" gasped Charles, just as Erik gave a particularly filthy roll of his hips. 

Erik smirked, stood up, and held out a hand, summoning a tin of vaseline from his duffel bag. He offered Charles his hand and pulled him up from the chair.

"Lead on, my friend."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took about three days for Erik and Charles to surface from the sex den formerly known as Charles bedroom. Several attempts were made, first when Charles ran out of Earl Grey and decided to go to the corner shop and almost got entirely dressed before Erik pinned him to the bookshelf and shoved his hands unceremoniously down his trousers - then, several sweaty and extremely pleasurable hours later, Erik chivalrously offered to make the corner shop trip in his place, and Charles was so overcome with delight and gratitude that he immediately pulled Erik back under the tangled sheets to spend quite some time enthusiastically thanking him. By the time they'd finished, the shop had already been closed for several hours. 
> 
> Eventually, Charles could barely tell where Erik ended and he began, either in the sweat-slick tangle of their physical bodies, or in the pleasure-hazy soup of their twined consciousnesses.
> 
> "Mine is the grumpy one," murmured Erik without opening his eyes.

It took about three days for Erik and Charles to surface from the sex den formerly known as Charles bedroom. Several attempts were made, first when Charles ran out of Earl Grey and decided to go to the corner shop and almost got entirely dressed before Erik pinned him to the bookshelf and shoved his hands unceremoniously down his trousers - then, several sweaty and extremely pleasurable hours later, Erik chivalrously offered to make the corner shop trip in his place, and Charles was so overcome with delight and gratitude that he immediately pulled Erik back under the tangled sheets to spend quite some time enthusiastically thanking him. By the time they'd finished, the shop had already been closed for several hours. 

Eventually, Charles could barely tell where Erik ended and he began, either in the sweat-slick tangle of their physical bodies, or in the pleasure-hazy soup of their twined consciousnesses.

"Mine is the grumpy one," murmured Erik without opening his eyes.

"We should shower," said Charles reluctantly, nonetheless clinging tighter to Erik's chest.

"Why so glum? I'm sure we could have a great deal of fun in the shower." Helpfully, he supplied a flood of images - Erik on his knees on the tiles, water pounding over their naked bodies and drowning out the sound of their pants and moans - Erik pressed against the wall while Charles sucked yet more bruises into his neck - Erik hefting Charles aloft and wrapping his legs around his waist - all in vivid technicolour with surround sound.

"You are going to be the death of me, love," groaned Charles, "but I'm afraid I share this bathroom with everyone on this staircase, and I probably don't need to remind you that the cause of gay rights is going about as well as mutant rights."

"Ugh."

"Besides, unless you want to get athlete's foot of the _knees_..."

"_Ugh_."

Armed with Charles' flip flops and a towel, Erik was the first to brave the showers. After he returned to the room and Charles followed suit, they headed down to the dining hall for dinner, which was a fairly passable rabbit stew - the rabbits terrorising the college vegetable garden having mysteriously vanished the previous day. Erik was entirely baffled by the sheer length of the Latin grace that students were compelled to stand for, which Charles insisted on translating.

"How is it that you don't speak a word of German and yet you are practically fluent in Latin and Ancient Greek?" asked Erik with a teasing grin.

"Don't ask me to explain the priorities of the British education system. You might as well ask me why I didn't learn to so much as fry an egg until I was twenty."

After pudding, they meandered slowly back to Charles' rooms over the quadrangle, sated and sleepy. As they curled up together in bed, their bodies slotting together with practised ease, Charles made a sad little noise into Erik's hair.

"You're leaving in the morning," he said quietly.

Erik winced and turned around to face him. "I need to move before the trail goes cold, and since you won't tell me where he is..."

"I'm sorry, Erik," sighed Charles, voice breaking a little in his sincerity. "I am so sorry. I can see what he did to you, I know why you want this so badly, but I won't help you. There is a better way, my friend. I wish I could help you see that."

"I wish I had your optimism," said Erik quietly, and settled closer against Charles' chest to enjoy one last night of sleep in his restful embrace.

The next morning, Charles took stock of the state of his bedroom. The only major casualty had been a ceramic lamp that they had knocked over during the night, and a few buttons that had popped off his shirt when it had been torn from his chest. His aluminium bed frame had been shaped into makeshift handcuffs and then expertly repaired, looking good as new. The sheets would need a thorough washing, and a few books had fallen off of the shelves. All-in-all, it looked rumpled and well-fucked, much like he did.

Erik had slipped out of bed and was hunting silently through his things to find his toothbrush.

"I know that our paths will cross again, my friend," said Charles softly to his back. "If you want to do things differently, you know where to find me."

Erik took Charles' hand and rested his fingers against his forehead. Firmly, he projected into Charles' mind the image and address of his usual residence, a small but neat safehouse in central Berlin.

"You can find me, too. I'm usually there when I'm not..."

"Murdering?" supplied Charles unhelpfully.

"Charles," admonished Erik, turning back to his duffel bag.

"I like the wallpaper. The whole, string and photos on a corkboard, thing is a bit serial-killer-ey, though, isn't it darling?"

"That's not actually an inaccurate description of me, you know."

"I wish I could make you see that there is so much more to you than this," said Charles.

Erik looked over his shoulder, naked and lovely, and quirked an eyebrow. "You could make me do whatever you wanted, Charles. I'm sure I'd enjoy every second."

Charles laughed, at this, and the fretful look lifted from his face a little. "I don't doubt that you would."

Zipping up his bag, Erik shucked on his slacks and the skin-tight black polo neck and slung his jacket over one shoulder, ready to go. He strode over to where Charles was sitting up in bed, the sheets pooling around his naked hips, and captured his lips in a fierce kiss.

"Farewell, Charles," he said as they broke apart, his eyes lingering on Charles' red lips.

"Until we meet again, Erik."

Once he was alone in his room, Charles slumped back against his pillows and let out a tired sigh, rubbing at his brow. Rousing himself from his sulk, he stood, shrugging on his comfortable, threadbare dressing gown, and padded into the kitchen to make himself a restorative cup of tea. As the kettle boiled, he lifted his head and began to smile, then took a second mug out from the cupboard.

The door banged open, and Erik came striding into the room, crowding Charles against the cabinets and kissing him deeply, hungrily pressing their bodies together.

"My train doesn't leave for another hour," panted Erik as they separated. "Let's see if we can break another lamp."


End file.
